


Butterflies

by angellteeth



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Wereolf AU, Werewolves. Are like butterflies :)., enough has happened that i can add that now :), ill just add tags as it goes, listen buddy i dunno whats up neither
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angellteeth/pseuds/angellteeth
Summary: Do you know what happens to caterpillars in a chrysalis?
Comments: 83
Kudos: 63





	1. They Melt Completely

**Author's Note:**

> this! is a rewrite. because the old one was. uncomfortable! just as last time, very much inspired by a-solitary-marshmallow

Stan stood outside his brother's house in the snow. He felt sweaty. He also knew that it definitely wasnt sweat, unfortunately. He shouldn't have come when he did. Last night had been a full moon. They lasted three nights. 

It was already getting late.

Maybe he could just hide somewhere in the woods all night or something. 

No, no. There was no way he could get far enough away. Whatever Stanford wanted, he had to either get his help, or drive off a cliff and maybe survive.

Probably survive.

It had gotten harder to kill him lately, what with the werewolf thing and all.

Time was running out.

He just had to buck up and knock.

The second he did, the door was flung open and Stanford shoved a crossbow in his face.

"Have you come to steal my eyes?!"

Stan just stared at the crossbow for a second, leaning back with his hands up. Whatever he was expecting ("hi"? "thanks for coming" maybe?) it was a far cry from _that._

"Gee, ya really know how to make a guy feel welcome." He took a step back, only to be yanked inside by the collar of his jacket and get a light shone in his eyes.

"What the _hell_ -" He grabbed Ford's wrists, shoving him backward. Whatever he was hoping to accomplish from that, he apparently did, because he didn't come at him again with the flashlight.

Good thing too, he smelled fucking awful.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" He pulled his shirt over his nose. The whole place spelled like an old rat corpse, but somehow more wrong than that. His shirt didn't exactly smell nice but it smelled better than that, at least.

"I just had to-" Ford started, then made a face like he was being held at gunpoint to keep whatever he was about to say a secret. "There's nothing wrong with me. I just-" He turned the head of a skeleton model around, "-Need your help."

"Alright, fine. Lay it on me." Stan talked through his shirt, glancing around. Maybe if he could find the source of the smell he could get rid of it and actually _breathe._ The place was overall kind of disgusting. 

Piles of miscellaneous things were everywhere, covered in a thick layer of dust. The only thing that didn't seem dusty was a path on the ground, that Stanford was currently leading through. Whatever he was saying, Stan was having a hard time listening.

All he could focus on was the _smell._

Under the smell of decay, there was mold and rotten food from the kitchen, and under that sweat and blood from Stanford and everything he touched. And under that a smell that was new to him until a few months ago. Fear.

It permeated the entire place.

Even if he was still completely human, it would all be _unbearable._ There was _no way_ Stanford wasn't bothered by it.

Stan was finally snapped out of his somewhat judgmental thoughts.

"I need to show you something you won't understand."

"Trust me, Sixer, whatever's going on, I'll understand."

Stanford lead him downstairs into the basement. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. Maybe he was paranoid, maybe the place really was bad news.

He was just thankful that the basement smelled better. It mostly just smelled like dust, though the smell of blood was stronger. He was happy to stop having to hold his shirt against his face.

"Hm. I understand literally none of this."

What was he even looking at? Some kind of massive portal? _Why?_

"Well-" Stanford started an explanation, but Stan interrupted him. "No, nope, don't. Some other time. Just. What do I have to do." It was getting late, and he absolutely did not have time for a lengthy story about what the hell Stanford was getting up to.

His skin felt just about ready to fall off, and like it was on completely wrong.

Stanford pulled a book from a pocket inside his coat. It smelled just as much of blood and sweat as the rest of him. He got up real close. Way closer than he'd gotten in the last sixteen years. 

The smell made him curl is lips up in an ugly, almost human sneer.

Stanford definitely noticed the "almost" part of it.

His face went from tired confusion to horrified realization, and the smell of fear spiked above the blood and sweat. He didn't know _what_ Stan was exactly, but he wasn't _human_ anymore.

He shoved the book in Stan's hands. 

"You- You need to leave. You need to go _now._ " Ford gave him a firm shove on his shoulders towards the stairs. For his current state, firm was pretty weak.

In Stan's current state, weak felt pretty strong.

His head had started spinning, to the point where he couldn't even stand up. He half fell half crouched on the ground, seeing double.

His skin felt slick.

He didn't have the time to leave. Ford would have to figure something out.

Because Stan's skin was melting off his hands.


	2. And Reform Completely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into a butterfly.
> 
> Body horror warning, dude fuckin melts.

Stan couldn't quite see, his eyes were a mush now and everything was just vague impressions, but he could feel his skin falling off in globs and his bones dissolving and all his organs just sloshing around, half in half out half liquid.

His hearing was steadily going but he could hear Ford panicking in the background, asking for an explanation that he frankly couldn't give anymore. He was pretty sure his tongue fell out a second ago.

His sense of smell was still rather intact, unfortunately. Everything on the inside falling out in a viscous pile doesn't smell very good. At least it was deteriorating with the rest of him.

In no time at all, he wasn't even able to think.

He was just a puddle on the ground with an almost watered down yogurt like consistency with his clothes on top, and Stanford had no way of know why that was.

Ford circled around the puddle that was his brother just a minute ago, not able to make himself get within three feet of it. He knew realistically he should do _something_ but _what_ could he do?

He didn't even know _what was happening._

The most irrational part of his brain was frustrated with Stan for not giving him something to go off of. The most irrational part had been rather loud for the last couple of months.

He kept circling, wringing his hands as if that would make something come to him.

He had no idea how long it took, a few minutes? A whole hour? But then the goop on the ground started to harden and change color.

It built itself up from the inside out, the slime turning white and into bone and climbing up, muscle and flesh building on top sprouting _fur_ and turning into far from human legs.

The parts writhed on the ground, connecting and forming an area for organs to huddle and fold into as a huge ribcage curled around them and the dark fluid dripped down, making the already massive thing barrel chested.

Even incomplete, it caused a profound sense of fear in him. Like he was being hunted before the thing even had the ability to hunt.

It formed a skull at the same time as it formed its arms, a tongue lolling out between jagged, uneven, sharp teeth before the skin could even wrap itself around it's head. Its arms were longer than they should be, and it's fingers ended in sharp claws with no distinction between the nail and the finger itself.

The last thing to finally solidify were its eyes.

The yellow was a stark contrast from the dark fur covering what he was sure was _supposed_ to be his brother that made him want to throw up. He had to remind himself over and over that wolves, and he was sure that this was some kind of wolf, had naturally yellow eyes.

Yellow, searching eyes that made him seize up when they landed on him.

It- He -Looked confused above all else. Did it- _he_ -not know where he was anymore? Ford took the chance to back up towards the door dividing the portal and the rest of the basement.

He could just... Leave him down there, until he figured something out.

He shut and locked the door, looking through the window and hoping Stan(?) wouldn't break it. He sat at the desk in front of the window, reaching for his journal in the pocket inside his jacket.

He'd written something about werewolves, once. They'd never melted but maybe that's what this was.

It wasn't there.

He'd dropped it. In the portal room.


	3. Some Butterflies Eat Meat Ya Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animal violence happens in this one

Ford stared through the window. The light through the window was the only light in the dim portal room. He could just see the journal, near the danger line that cut through the room. Almost the farthest point from the door.

He'd done things that could be considered more dangerous than running through a room with a dangerous creature inside, he'd intentionally gotten stung and bitten by dozens venomous creatures just to document the anymore.

He'd almost gotten his arm ripped off more times than he cared to count.

Logically, this should comfort him.

He'd survived worse, he could survive a brief encounter with the thing in the portal room. He knew that. He was smarter than a wolf. He could strategize, easily.

The wolf, Stan (he was still having a little trouble coming to terms with that), wandered around the portal room. He shoved his nose in every nook and cranny, sniffing around just like any other animal. It was wrong, seeing his brother act like a common animal.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. Maybe he could just go around him without alerting him. Maybe he could throw something across the room and run to the journal and back. 

He wasn't paying attention to Stan anymore, too caught up in his thoughts.

He didn't notice him stopping his rounds of the portal room, peering through the window, coming closer.

Closer, closer, closer.

Crouched on the ground and creeping closer until he was just outside of the light coming through the window.

He flung himself at the window, bouncing off it and scaring Ford out of his chair. 

Ford backed off, hitting his head against a shelf and knocking most of its contents onto the ground. Stan kept ramming into the window, looking Ford in the eye while doing it.

It wasn't cracking, yet, and it probably hurt, but he kept at it.

Sneaking around him wouldn't do any good, apparently. He'd have to distract him, somehow. Throwing something to make a noise wouldn't be a very good distraction, with his eyes on him like that.

He'd need something he wanted.

Meat, maybe.

Ford pushed himself up, rubbing his head, and went upstairs to the kitchen. He had meat, last time he checked.

He opened the fridge and immediately heaved at the smell. It was all rotten. How long had it been since he'd opened the thing? He felt like things had only been bad for a week.

He slammed the fridge shut. He couldn't give him rotten meat.

He couldn't leave either. If he went too far, they'd both be in more danger than they already were. He had to figure something out.

He ransacked the kitchen, pulling everything out of the fridge, freezer, pantry. The only food that hadn't gone bad was a bag of jellybeans. Not particularly a good distraction for a giant wolf.

He looked outside. It was dark, but not quite that dark. The moonlight reflecting on the snow provided plenty light to see by.

He'd always liked winter for that. It was always easy to see.

He picked up his crossbow and stepped outside. If there was nothing inside, he'd have to find something outside.

Stepping into the snow, he immediately regretted not putting on something a bit more appropriate for this. No matter, he needed to be quick anyway.

He trekked out into the woods till he found a familiar clearing.

Even in winter, creatures often passed through the area.

He cleared a spot on the ground and sat, waiting. It was just a matter of time till something wandered by, and that was his best bet. He'd never exactly gone hunting before.

He waited, and waited, till his body was getting numb and he started dozing off, when something moved.

He gripped the crossbow and took aim.

It was a hare, on the far side of the clearing.

He shot, hitting it through its neck.

He got up, watching it squirm on the ground. He picked up the dying hare and pulled the bolt out, snapping its neck. He should have shot it in the head. The sensation of snapping it's neck wasn't pleasant.

But it was necessary. 

He collected the crossbow and carried the hare back, holding it up by its back legs and letting its blood drain, leaving a trail in the snow.

In front of the door, he shook it out, flinging specks of blood on the snow and his legs. It was empty, more or less. He hoped that wouldn't matter to Stan.

He pushed the door open and dropped the crossbow, kicking the door shut and heading back down to the basement.

It sounded like Stan had let up with the window.

He slowly made his way through the basement, his footsteps echoing. He could see through the window from across the room. Stan was sitting there, staring through the window at him.

He almost looked judgemental.

Ford held up the hare for Stan to see. The judgment turned to interest.

He looked like he was about start slamming himself again the window again.

Ford flung the door open and tossed the hare across the room with as much strength as he could manage.

Stan stared, glancing between Ford and the meat, running his tongue over his teeth, cutting it up. Drool and blood dripped on the ground from his mouth.

It pooled and mixed as he stared Ford down.

For a second, Ford was worried it wouldn't work. That he'd get ripped apart instead.

After a minute, Stan walked across the room, never taking his eyes off Ford. He had to walk sideways or backwards for the most part. If he wasn't life threatening, it'd be kind of funny.

He crouched in the corner with his back to the wall, and tore into the hare.

Ford slowly walked along the wall towards the journal, giving Stan as much space as he could. He really didn't want to provoke him at the moment.

He picked up speed the closer he got, not able to contain his adrenaline.

Staring an animal in the eye is typically seen as a challenge, he was pretty sure, but he couldn't take his eyes off Stan. Every second he wasn't ripping into the animal he was staring at Ford with pure distrust.

The few minutes of slinking through the room felt like ages.

Eventually, he was close to the journal as he could get with the wall. Stan was completely opposite him, staring at him with fur sticking out between his teeth.

Again, if he wasn't so life threatening, it'd be a little funny.

For the first time in his life, Ford exercised caution when he took a step closer. The journal was closer to Ford than it was to Stan, but it was still uncomfortably close to Stan.

Stan didn't react beyond narrowing his eyes.

Two more steps, and Stan started to growl at him. Ford wanted to run. That would just set Stan off.

A couple more steps, the growling got deeper.

He just had to get a little closer.

One more step, he crouched down and picked up the book, never taking his eyes off Stan.

Apparently, he was too close.

Stan started to get up, staying low to the ground. Like he was hunting.

Ford couldn't take it.

He bolted, running across the room as fast as he could.

Stan sprung up, getting halfway across the room in one bound and snapping at Ford's legs. He didn't get closer than that, slinking backwards towards the rest of his meal.

Ford got out of the room and slammed the door shut, sitting at the desk breathing heavily, straining to see Stan in the dim corner.

He sighed, slouched over the desk, and set down the journal.


	4. A Healthy Portion Of Bad Luck And A Pinch Of Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Ford deserves just a little good luck for once.

Ford stared at the journal page, its edges slightly ripped.

There was almost nothing.

Just a sketch of a werewolf, and the most basic facts about them. Full moon, silver bullets, supposed immortality, spreads through bodily fluids into cuts like rabies.

A small note about the mailman.

The page next to it was completely blank, reserved for compiling more information. He chewed on his tongue, frustrated with himself for never getting around to it.

Looking to waste time, he started drawing in the bottom left corner of the blank page.

A wolf's head rising out of a pile of goop, all blacked out but for the eyes and teeth.

He dated the page at the top when he was down and started writing.

_S arrived earlier today and unfortunately is still here. He started melting and is now some kind of wolf locked in my basement. He tried to break through the window but was sedated when I tossed him some meat._

He kept the entry short.

He didn't have much energy to write and wanted to save room on the page. He might be able to configure some kind of cure (had anyone ever done that?) and he'd need the space.

Looking over the barren entries one more time, he slammed the book shut and dropped it back in the pocket in his jacket.

Why did he have to have so little information.

After everything he'd been through, he thought he deserved a convenient little entry on a cure or something.

He pushed the chair back and got up, content to pace through his house as he had been for the past god knows how long. 

He passed through the kitchen twice, eyeing the fridge each time. The moon was full for three nights on average, and he really had no idea which night this was.

He didn't really want to sit in the woods waiting for something to stroll by again.

He had to go shopping, or figure something else out.

But first things first.

He rummaged through the drawers until he found a dusty roll of trash bags. Everything was pretty dusty, honestly. He shook it out, opened it, and emptied the whole fridge into the bag, turning his head away from it trying to ignore the smell and the fact he was touching it.

It took longer than he'd like.

He almost threw up more times than he'd admit, though there wasn't actually anything in his stomach at that point.

He hauled the bag outside and left it by the side of the house. He could deal with all the rest of it later. With any luck the gnomes would've developed a taste for rotten food and save him the trouble.

For a second, he lingered on his porch out in the cold.

It was refreshing, sometimes, and kept him awake. It wasn't the wisest decision to just sit and stand in the snow without adequate clothing, but it wasn't really his worst move in Gravity Falls either.

Compared to everything else, sitting in the snow was one of his best ideas yet.

When his toes started going numb he finally went inside. He couldn't think of any alternative to shopping, except for robbing people or trying his luck with foraging.

Neither option was more appealing than shopping. It was close, though.

He took a breathe, really noticing the smell when compared to the outside, and started pacing again, carefully peering at the piles of clutter this time. He knew he had some boots somewhere, and he didn't really want to step out in the snow without them again.

Especially considering the chances Jim ate his car again. It happened way too often, mostly when it was most inconvenient.

He finally found his boots in a pile of clothes from when he was still bothering to change them every once in a while. He pulled off his, now wet, shoes and socks and replaced them with a dry (and dirty) pair of socks and the boots.

Satisfied that he _probably_ wasn't going to die and Stan would be fine for an hour or two alone, the door didn't open from the inside anyway, he stepped out and started walking down the path.

Last he remembered, he'd parked farther away than usual.

Just his luck, his car wasn't there, but the imprint in the snow was.

He groaned and crossed his arms. He really wasn't looking forward to walking to town, and then back with a couple bags of groceries.

Maybe he could use Stan's car. The keys were no doubt in one of his pockets, but maybe he'd get lucky for once and they'd be left in the car. Or maybe he'd conveniently figure out how to hot wire a car.

Not like his life has ever been convenient.

He turned around and started walking back up towards the house. Stan had parked up close to his house. One of the smarter decisions between the two.

He tried the driver's side door and almost collapsed with relief when it opened, unlocked.

He took a seat and started rummaging around (he had no room to talk, but Stan's car was incredibly messy), opening the sun visor, and _did_ collapse with relief, leaning forward over the steering wheel when the set of keys fell out.

After a minute of just sitting there, he grabbed the keys and started the car, driving off towards town.


	5. Tigers And Butterflies Have False Eyes In Common

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because its filler doesn't mean it's worthless to the story.

Stanford stood in the convenience store, hanging out in the back away from the eye of the cashier. He really didn't need to feel like he was being watched at the moment.

He stuck his hands in his pockets for the millionth time, rubbing the two twenty dollar bills between his fingers.

It was all he had on him. He should've thought about that before he left.

Though, he probably didn't have that much money left at all, when he thought about it.

He took his hands out of his pockets, cracking his knuckles out of habit and clasping his hands behind his back. Making sure to keep his footfalls quiet, also out of habit, he made his way through the shop, grabbing what he could afford.

He both tried to be quick about it and extend the amount of time he spent near the back, away from the cashier.

Eventually he had to admit to himself he was just stalling, and didn't need to reconsider anything he grabbed anymore or check if it all stayed within his budget.

He took it all up front to be scanned and payed for. Neither he nor the cashier tried to make eye contact.

All in all, he had fourteen microwave dinners, a pound of meat, and a bag of oranges.

The cashier sorted it all into three bags, it totalled forty dollars exactly. He picked up the bags, hanging them all on one arm, and took the money out of his pocket, handing it over still without looking them in the face.

He wasted no time walking out.

Halfway through the door, they said something that made him stop.

"Have a nice night, Sixer."

His breathing stalled and he turned to look at them. Had he been awake so long he started having auditory hallucinations?

They weren't looking at him, staring ahead at the wall. With the profile view, he could see one of their eyes. The sclera stained a light yellow.

He clenched his fists and bit down hard on his tongue. 

They blinked and it was gone. They still didn't acknowledge him.

He stepped out of the convenience store and shoved the door shut, walking to Stan's car and picking up speed till he was sprinting the short distance.

He yanked the door open and tossed the groceries into the passenger seat, sitting down and slamming the door shut and locking it.

Against his better judgement, he sat there for a few minutes in the dark parking lot, starring at the front of the convenience store and gripping and ungripping the steering wheel, waiting to be able to breathe.

It was just a hallucination. He'd had several since he stopped sleeping.

They shouldn't keep shaking him so bad.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. It was hard to make himself open them again.

When he pushed himself up and opened his eyes, he could breathe again and the sky was getting lighter.

It wouldn't be long until Stan was himself again. Most likely, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if the way I cut chapters is normal or makes sense


	6. An Orange Warms The Stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title is a lyric from Bruno Is Orange. No, that song bares no similarities to this chapters.

By the time he got back, the sun was up.

He got the grocery bags, hanging them all on the arm again, and put the keys back in the sun visor where he found them before stepping out of the car.

He went inside and dropped the oranges on the counter, shoving the rest in the fridge without unbagging it.

On his way out of the kitchen, and grabbed a couple of oranges.

He had no idea when the last time he'd eaten was. But he was hungry.

He started going downstairs, and paused halfway down. It felt stupid to be nervous about seeing Stan. He couldn't even remember being nervous about seeing Stan before then. There was no reason to be nervous now.

He rolled his shoulders and kept walking.

If he could ignore a feeling for long enough, it normally went away.

He set the oranges down on the desk in front of the window and looked in. Stan was still in there, sitting on the ground with his back to the console used to turn off the portal, holding something small and rubbing it with his thumb.

He hadn't noticed Ford yet.

For a second, Ford just watched him. His face looked so much more sunken in than when he'd arrived, and the bags under his eyes were so much darker and more noticeable. Maybe he'd look better up close.

Ford picked up one of the oranges, digging his nail into the peel and started unpeeling it, and opened the door. Stan flinched, startled, and dropped what he'd been holding. His expression was dull and tired compared to his reaction.

It looked like one of the hare's teeth.

Stan stood up, leaning on the console. Up close he looked worse. His skin was waxy and paler than it had been the night before. His eyes were dull, almost glassy. His hair looked dead. He hadn't quite looked like he'd been doing well for himself when he'd gotten there, but he hadn't been _that_ bad.

They stood there for minute. Ford got the sense Stan was sizing him up like he was about to fight him.

Stan was the first to say anything. "Quit starin' at me." He huffed and stood up straight, breaking eye contact and looking at the tooth on the ground.

Ford blinked and resumed peeling his orange, looking at the fruit instead of Stan. He tossed the bits of peel off to the side. Not like he had made being clean a priority of his.

"What was that last night?" He glanced at Stan when he spoke. Habit. He focused back on the orange.

"What did it look like, genius?" Stan scoffed, crossing his arms. He hadn't been as disgruntled when he'd arrived. Maybe being locked in a basement did that to you.

"It looked like you melted. It was... Rather startling. Has that happened often since..." He trailed off. If he mentioned that night directly, he'd just get mad. "You know."

He looked at the orange. He was doing a poor job of peeling it.

"For the last few months. That's life, I guess." Stan shrugged and bent over, picking up the tooth.

When he stood back up, he wobbled and stared at the wall, muttering something about a head rush(?) before he steadied. More or less, at least. He started fidgeting with the tooth again.

"Werewolf?" Ford flicked another piece of the peel to his side, watching Stan fidget. Was he nervous?

"Not much else it could be."

"I suppose not."

They lapsed into silence, Ford peeling his orange and Stan fidgeting with the tooth. The quiet wasn't exactly comfortable, but it wasn't hostile (yet), more like strangers in a waiting room.

Ford kept glancing at Stan, he just looked _awful_. Worse than Ford assume he looked himself.

Stan, however, remained fixated on the tooth.

Until the orange was fully peeled.

He stared at the fruit almost the same way he'd looked at the hare the night before. Ford offered the orange wordlessly, a little worried what would happen if he didn't.

Stan didn't take it at first. Just looked at Ford for a second. His expression almost looked shocked, under a film of tired.

When he took it, Ford got the second one from the desk and sat down, starting to unpeel it. 

Stan pocketed the tooth and walked out of the portal room, leaning on the wall next to the door and pulling a slice off the orange. He chewed weirdly slow.

They stayed quiet long enough for Ford to fully unpeel his orange. Stan had only eaten two orange slices by then.

"You look awful." Ford commented, taking a slice off his orange. Maybe he was worried, may he was curious. It was hard to tell.

"And you smell like a dead man. Your point?"

"You just. Didn't look like that when you got here." 

"You try melting twice. I'll be fine in a few hours." Stan shrugged, taking off another slice and popping it in his mouth.

Ford looked at him. It made sense that the transformation would leave him in less than the best shape, but somehow he didn't really trust that he'd be fine. It was something he'd lied about often enough.

But he wasn't a medical doctor and he knew neither of them would even consider seeing one. 

The most he could do was give him the orange. 

"What've you been doing?"

For some reason, Ford couldn't ever just _shut up_ when he felt awkward.

Stan didn't answer for a second, just stared at him, completely halting all movement. It made Ford squirm internally while he tried to appear casual.

"Travel."

The answer didn't seem like a lie, but it clearly wasn't all he was up to. He clearly didn't like the choice of topic.

Even after ten years, Ford knew how to read his brother.

"Where've you been?" That didn't mean he wouldn't ask the wrong questions, though.

"All over. Why do you care?"

"Just curious."

"Mm. What've you been doing up here?"

"Researching. This town is full of anomalies that you wouldn't believe." Any other time he'd be excited to share this information. At the moment though, he was just tired.

"I think I almost ran over a three headed deer on the way over."

"It gets weirder and more dangerous than that, trust me."

The conversation died down again, with them both finishing their respective oranges, and Stan pushed himself off the wall.

"I should get going."

"You don't look like you're in any condition to drive."

"I've driven like this before. I'm fine."

"Maybe you should stay until your condition seems better than absolute shit."

Stan squinted at him for a second, then starred at the wall, mulling over the offer. There was no way Ford was actually concerned for his well being, right? And why would he want to stay in a house that smells like rot anyway? Though, driving wasn't very appealing at the moment.

"Fine, but take a shower before I throw up or hit you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this may just be the one I'm Least Proud Of ™ but my inability to make a second draft has left us all stuck with this, unfortunately for me. I intended something different but for the life of me I'm not sure what it was


	7. Ruminating In His Juices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brain juices, that is.
> 
> Very brief, past tense mention of vomiting. Nothing major, just a little warning though.

Stan sat in the swivel chair in Ford's basement, fidgeting with the tooth that had fallen out of that animal's head. It was unidentifiable to him.

He felt worse than the last bought of the full moon. Though, then he'd had something to eat beforehand. And drink.

And he vaguely remembered throwing up last night. He must've eaten too fast. That'd be unfortunate to clean. For Stanford, at least.

In Stan's case, he really had no intention of sticking around.

But his body apparently had no intention of supporting him. He had a good chance of getting too dizzy to even walk if he stood up. 

It wasn't that bad earlier, when he had the time to just sit on the floor and let his body catch up to itself, standing up just seemed to set that all back to square one.

So, he was stuck in that chair fidgeting with a tooth, for the moment.

Better than the concrete floor, at least.

Unfortunately, he was also stuck with his thoughts and nothing else again. 

He couldn't help but wonder why Stanford wanted him to stick around. To poke at him like one of the weird little things cluttering the basement and house? Researching anomalies, was what he said he'd been doing.

Stan had definitely become something of an anomaly.

Maybe whatever he was keeping him around for had something to do with that book of his. Stan personality couldn't come up with any reason why it'd be so important that Ford would call him over just to take it.

And then risk his life just to get it back? Was that what he'd done last night?

So many of his memories were so hazy lately. That could mean any number of things, really. From malnutrition to depression to PTSD.

With any luck, it'd just be malnutrition. He could deal with that fine.

More or less fine.

His thoughts wandered than snapped back to where the train of thought had started. Why had Stanford asked (more or less told, really) him to stay.

Couldn't be out of goodness of his heart. At least, not _just_ out of the goodness of his heart. Ford had no reason to care what happened to him. He didn't care ten years ago, and there was nothing that Stan could think of that would've changed that.

Though he never was able to think of much anything at all was he?

That was what got him there, wasn't it? Not thinking to just delay a couple of days, like some kind of idiot? He could've been in and out like that, if he had.

Though given the state of things, Stanford wouldn't take that all too well.

Neither of them were ever patient, but Stanford really was the worst with it between the two. And he clearly hadn't gotten any better.

In fact, he looked like he got worse. Very worse.

And for some reason he decided to stall whatever he'd wanted Stan there for in the first place for what could only be to make him a science experiment.

Well, whatever he was there for and however long he was there for, there was a good chance he could do something at least a little useful and force Ford to clean that God forsaken house.

Even deep in the basement he could smell traces of whatever had died in his walls.

Being a werewolf did have its advantages sometimes, even though there hadn't been a situation yet where Stan would call supernaturally enhances senses an advantage.

And in Stanford's house it had only been a major disadvantage so far.

No matter how much he tried to ignore it all, he could smell the upper floor and hear... A laugh?

It sounded like Stanford.

But Stanford had never laughed like that before.


	8. Say Hi To Crazy Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its obligatory at this point, really.

Who fell asleep standing upright in the shower, Bill had to wonder.

Sixer did, apparently.

The insomniac really had done a number on himself. His skin burned in places. Through all the paraphernalia he'd collected (with shockingly little need for convincing) Bill could spy on him doing a whole number of things to keep himself from falling asleep.

Mostly burning himself.

It was really quite hilarious to Bill. He would've laughed himself to death, if he could even die. It would've been even better if he could've done it himself and felt it in real time. But the pain left over would have to do.

For the moment.

The exhaustion however, he wasn't much of a fan of. It weighed on his eyes and skin and bones in ways he wasn't used to. Why did the stupid nerd always have to be so _tired?_

No matter, not important. What was important now was being a general nuisance so he could laugh at some good old misfortune.

He turned off the water and stepped out, putting on Sixer's without bothering to dry off.

Sure, he _could_ try and do something with the portal, but Sixer never stayed asleep long enough. His reign was one billion years prophesied, he'd get his golden opportunity in time.

And he was perfectly content to just fuck everything up for the Pines's.

He walked through the house, leaving a wet trail, wondering just what would confound them the most. He could mess with Sixer's vocabulary again, but that wouldn't quite mess with the other one enough.

No, it had to be bigger.

Drive a real wedge between them.

He stopped at the front door and looked through the window at the car the other one had arrived in. It was an offensively bright red spot against the snow. He liked that about the other one. He was an idiot, but an idiot with at least a little style.

He opened the door and walked outside without shutting it. He had an idea which he'd call pretty great.

The cold bit right at his bones, making him shake involuntarily. With him being soaked, the cold almost hurt. He'd laugh if the shaking wasn't so annoying. Did fleshbags really have to be so weak?

He tried to ignore it and walked over to the car, and popped the hood. He didn't exactly know anything to cars (why would he ever dedicate his time to that?) but he did know if he messed with enough parts it'd all be unusable. And Sixer could take the blame.

He made quick work of pulling apart everything he could pull apart, pocketing whatever pieces came off and dumping handfuls of snow into the engine and shut the hood.

For an extra measure, he funneled snow into the gas tank. He'd heard someone talking about pouring sugar into someone's gas tank once, but Sixer unfortunately didn't do him the favor of buying any sugar.

In case snow wasn't close enough, he sifted through the snow until his hands were numb and he found a rock.

Then he threw it through the windshield.

He had a good chuckle as he went back inside. He could feel Sixer waking up, booting him out of the body ever so slowly.

It really was practically a miracle he'd stayed asleep as long as he had. In the Nightmare Realm, that was what they'd call a "plot convenience".

He let loose one last cackle as the world faded out and the Nightmare Realm faded in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so close to naming this chapter after the draft, which was just "UH OH STINKY"


	9. It'll Get Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust me on that.

"You. _Broke._ My fucking car?" 

Stan stared at him, clasping his hands so tightly they were almost entirely white and his arms wouldn't stop shaking.

"I- It wasn't exactly _me_ but- I- It's. Hard to explain."

Ford couldn't just _tell him_ that he got possessed by a demon from another dimension. It sounded completely _insane_ , first off. And it was the biggest mistake he'd ever made. The only way to own up to it would be to fix it first, right?

It would just hurt less that way. Hurt _him_ less at least.

"Oh my god. I'm gonna kill you." Stan stood up out the chair, running both hands through his hair and gripping it near the roots. Ford worried he might end up pulling it out.

Stan took a step closer, making Ford tense up, and started pacing around the basement, repeating "I'm gonna kill you" under his breath. 

He was taking it better than he could've, at least.

Stan walked into the portal room, pacing around in a large circle. He took his hands off his head, shaking them out like he was flicking water off his hands instead.

Ford sat at the desk, trying to think of some excuse that sounded at least halfway reasonable and wouldn't get him punched in the gut.

He was having trouble.

Too vague and Stan would demand details, too detailed and Stan would see right through him.

He wasn't ever the best at coming up with something on the fly. He could lie easily, when he had time to think it all through and run it through his head a few times. But at least some of this would end up being done as he thought of it, he just didn't have the time.

Stan was already seeming to calm down, or least to be exhausting himself. His pacing had slowed and he was clenching his fists instead of shaking them. 

He'd be asking for details soon enough. 

Maybe it would've been better to just let Stan find out for himself that his car was busted. It probably would've been. It was getting harder and harder to properly think the longer he stayed awake.

Like his mind was buried under a pile of mud and he had to sift through it to get something legible.

He had to figure something out.

Both for the problem at hand, and the problem with Bill entering his mind.

For the problem at hand though, his time was up.

Stan was walking out of the portal room, his hands limply stuck in his pockets. He seemed to have exhausted himself, physically at least.

"So. If it "wasn't exactly you", then who exactly was it, Stanford?" 

"It. Has to do with one of the anomalies."

It wasn't a lie. At least, Stanford didn't consider withholding parts of the truth as lying.

"What _kind_ of anomaly?"

"One that can take over your mind. It's. Been making itself a nuisance."

Stan stared down at him. The dull look was gone from his eyes for now, replaced with cold hard fury that Stanford had seen often enough. Though, it never had been directed at him.

The abnormality of it all made him want to squirm a bit.

For someone who dealt with the unusual for a living, he should be able to handle this easier.

"I think. I'm going to go outside now."

Stan walked off to the stairs, covering his nose with his shirt halfway up, and left the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sun is rising and I haven't slept, I can't be held accountable for any of my words anymore


	10. And It'll Get Even Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolfism doesn't help with one's anger management skills.
> 
> Bits and pieces of suicidal ideation sprinkled throughout this one.

Stan stood outside, shivering.

He wanted to _scream_. That car was the _most important_ thing he owned, and would probably _stay_ that way until he died.

And now some anomaly has come and fucked it up _for kicks?_

Or Stanford had messed with it just to keep him there.

He kept flipping between believing him and not believing him. Either option seemed reasonable, given what he had to go off of.

That just made him want to scream more.

He stood leaning over the porch railing, clutching it like his life depended on it. If he went off and did something stupid he'd probably regret it.

He'd _definitely_ get an earful from Stanford.

If he even went back inside, that is.

But he didn't exactly have anywhere to go. He didn't have money for a motel, couldn't rely on his car anymore, and didn't even want to consider walking to town to see if he could figure something out.

The cold wouldn't _kill_ him (trust me, he's tried) but it wasn't comfortable and if he had a choice he'd choose to avoid it. 

And unfortunately he had the choice, and his other option was Stanford.

He pushed himself off the railing and chose a random direction, then started walking. He just had to get away for a while, no matter how painfully uncomfortable the cold was.

He glanced up at the sun.

It was around late afternoon. He sighed and kept walking.

He couldn't be out for long. A werewolf trapped in a basement is better for everybody than one wandering through the woods.

He kept walking till he felt he would be sufficiently lost, if he hadn't had his own tracks to follow, and walked some more.

He wanted to be out of anybody's earshot.

When he was far away enough from any kind of civilization, he took a deep breath, and _did_ scream.

He walked around in a small circle, shouting nonsense until his throat felt raw and he could barely be bothered with a whisper.

It helped, but only a little.

He leaned back against a tree, rubbing his eyes and taking deep breaths. He'd probably be less angry if he had been set on fire.

He'd probably be unconscious for a while, at least.

That'd be better than this.

It felt like his entire body was burning from the inside out.

He clenched his fists and punched the tree he had been leaning against. It was better than punching Stanford. Morally, at least.

He kept punching the tree until his knuckles split and bled, then he shoved his hands in the snow until they went numb and kept punching the tree.

His hands would be fine. 

He kept at it until his arms felt like weights, then he sat in the snow and let the cold wash over him.

It sapped him of whatever energy he may have had left to expend. 

He laid on his back and looked at the sky. The sun was going down. He had to get up and go back. But his body wouldn't listen.

Maybe it was the cold. Though, he'd always had trouble making his body listen to his brain.

He stayed on the ground, staring at the sky. 

Staying out there really wasn't safe for anybody, he knew that, but hadn't he always been selfish anyways? Wasn't that why his life had gone to shit? He was the selfish one?

His skin was getting slicker by the minute. Like a melting candle.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, looking down at his hands. 

For a minute, he sat there, wishing the cold was enough to kill him like anybody else.

He stood up and looked up at the sky.

There probably wasn't enough time.

He started walking back anyway.


	11. An Unfortunate Interaction With A Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Often interactions with men end only in pain, it seems.

When Stan got back, he was already in terrible condition. Anyone would look at him and assume he was dying. He was pretty sure when he stepped inside and doubled over at the smell, Stanford _did_ assume he was dying for a minute.

"Stanley! Oh my god are you-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, it's fine."

He stayed double over, bracing himself against his knees that felt like they were getting weaker every second. His vision doubled then tripled as all of him just seemed to suddenly start shutting off.

He was vaguely aware of Stanford freaking out again, trying to make him stand up and get down to the basement. It really was the only safe place he could lock him up.

But he really wasn't in any position to dictate whether he'd be moving or not anymore.

Everything shut off and shut down and changed completely and in no time at all, he wasn't even aware anymore.

Until, of course, he was. The first thing he registered was the man standing by a door, trying to coax him over.

For some reason, a reason that he couldn't understand for the life of him, seeing the man made him feel a sudden bolt of anger.

He wanted to clamp his jaws around one of the man's hands and not let go until it came off.

But he also felt, for some inexplicable reason, that he _could not_ hurt this man, no matter how much he really wanted to. 

He knew he wasn't always as he was, that he was spending the night as some kind of in between state, and that as he was would be gone in the morning. But he couldn't ever seem to remember much from the other state of being. The preferred state of being.

It was all so frustratingly hazy. Whoever this man was, he knew he knew him, and they'd done so much to hurt each other that he really wanted to hurt him back, and that there was a powerful undercurrent of _caring_ for this man despite that.

If only he knew why any of that was. If they really had such a sour feeling history, why should he care about the man?

It was all questions with no answers.

He slunk towards the man and his door, a low growl coming out of his throat when he neared. The fear coating the man's face made his lips curl up in an expression from the other state.

Whatever reason the man wanted him in that room below, he had fed him the night before, which was more than what could be said for the other men he'd come across in the state he was in.

They had tried to fight him, or make him fight other things.

It was never good.

At least this was a man he knew.

So he obliged, only threatening the man when he felt he'd gotten too close. For any other man being in the same room would be enough provocation.

It was when the man wanted him to step into another room that he stopped obliging.

The room was _wrong_. Everything about the room seemed to break every fundamental law of the world and he was having _none_ of it.

He sat on the ground just outside the door next to something burning hot, where the air still prickled in the way it shouldn't. 

Whatever reason the man wanted him in there would never be good enough to _make_ him go in there.

But apparently the man didn't seem to get that, making noises that he only half understood.

When that didn't work, the man gave him a nudge. It provoked a growl. Unlike before, that wasn't enough to make the man back away.

Instead, he gave him a push.

Sometimes reflexes would carry over from the other state of being, and vice versa. He wasn't sure if that's what made him react how he did, but when the man pushed him he turned and snapped at him.

The need not to be touched overrode the need not to hurt the man.

With a kick to the side, the man had him pinned against the thing that burned.

It burned through the fur right into the skin on his side and it hurt worse than anything could have ever hurt. It made him howl and scream and with pain he'd been sure was lost on him now.

He collapsed, stunned, and the man made more noise. Noise he couldn't understand at all.

The man used the vulnerable moment to get him into the room where the air hurt to breathe, it was so wrong. The man shut the door and locked him in, looking through the window.

He couldn't move, for now, the pain in his side too much to bear and the smell of burnt flesh and fur assaulting his all too sensitive sense of smell.

All he could do was bare his teeth at the man through the window in a hollow threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buddy I literally had to force myself to write this and I think it shows  
> yet again its taking all my restraint not to name this after the draft, which is just "one bad gloop and she do what I yoinky"


	12. Precursor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just stay awake, just stay awake, just stay awake.

Stanford paced around the basement's front room, waiting for the time to run down.

He just had to wait till morning, then he could deal with the brand. If it even needed dealing with. Werewolves were in part known for accelerated healing.

Stan would probably be fine by morning.

It'd make him feel better to check when he could, anyway.

He'd take a look right then, but he really doubted Stan would permit that. He was glaring at him through the window, baring his jagged, ill fitting teeth.

The thought of getting bitten made him shiver.

Part of him didn't really regret how he'd reacted. Stan would be a fine, a burn was probably minor for him. Ford getting his leg flayed was definitely worse.

He checked the clock.

It was only nine.

His pacing got more aggravated by the minute. He hated waiting around for things to happen.

And he was so exhausted.

When was the last time he'd gotten any meaningful sleep? Ninety-six hours ago? Maybe an even one hundred.

Standing around soaking wet in the snow yesterday didn't help.

The ever present pressure that had been in his head as long as he could remember from sleep deprivation was ten times worse than he was used to, and it felt impossible to get enough air.

If he stopped moving he felt like he'd collapse.

The only thing keeping him going was the momentum.

But the momentum was hard to keep up. He kept tripping and stumbling and having to catch himself on the desk. 

He needed to sit down.

His body felt like jelly and with one last stumble the momentum was dead.

He couldn't _stop_ himself from sitting down. 

He stared up at the ceiling, not blinking. He forced his eyes to stay peeled open until he started tearing up and couldn't stop himself to screwing his eyes shut.

His eyelids felt glued together. It was almost impossible to force them open once they were shut.

He had no idea how long he went through that, staring at the ceiling until he couldn't then struggling to open to his eyes back up.

Until his eyes didn't open back up.


	13. Of Very Unfortunate Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have a lot of unfortunate events, unfortunately.

Bill's luck was suddenly damn near hilarious.

Sixer passing out for extended periods of time, _and_ with a guest to screw with? 

All while the sun was rising and said guest was just a couple of minutes from being in the state of mind that he could really screw him up?

It was bound to be the funniest thing that happened to him since that stupid hick with the glasses.

He shoved Sixer's stupid jelly body up and went into the portal room, where the other one was laying face down on the ground, perfectly human looking.

And according to his lack of response to being "gently" kicked in his good side, unconscious as well.

Bill had to guess he'd woken up, put on his jeans, and passed back out again. He _didn't_ have a guess as to why he neglected to put on a shirt.

Unconscious really just wouldn't do. He needed the reaction. It was the only thing even close to hurting himself, hurting others.

He stepped over him, seeing a nasty brand on his other side.

Bill had told Sixer the symbol was a ward to help protect him and make his project lucky. It really meant something along the lines of "idiot chump". That wasn't the direct translation, there wasn't one in English. But it was close enough.

He let out a short cackle. From what he'd seen and heard, "idiot chump" really fit the bill.

Bill stepped on the brand, putting all of Sixer's weight on his side and grinding the grime on the bottom of his boots into the wound.

That woke him up!

Fez seized up and choked on a mangled cry of pain that only half left his throat. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, and twisted around to look up at him.

"Morning, numbskull! How's the burn?" He leaned into it, practically kneeling on the wound.

Fez squirmed, trying to shove Bill away or get out from under him. Poor idiot couldn't get an angle to shove him off or the leverage to get away.

"What the **_fuck_** Stanford?!" His voice cracked and came out strained.

Bill cackled again, listening to his own laugh echo back at him. 

"What's tha matter, Red? You've been burnt before. Ya should be used to this by now." He rolled him over onto his back and yanked him up by the elbow.

Mackerel (he was having a bit of trouble with the nickname, what exactly _was_ that shape?) stood hunched over, stumbling away from him.

"What is your _deal_?! You lost your fucking mind?!" 

"You're not far off buddy! Yeesh, you got fat." He poked Red in the gut, prompting him to stumble further back. He'd run into the wall if he wasn't careful. That wouldn't feel good on the brand.

Fez sneered, hunching further into himself. His teeth and expressions still weren't quite right. At least, as far as Bill knew about human teeth and expressions.

They weren't supposed to be that sharp, probably.

"You really just have become some sorta dumb animal, haven't ya?" Bill laughed, folding his arms behind his back and leaning down to meet his eye.

"That sucks for you, but it's _great_ for me! The more fucked you get in the head, the more fun it'll be for me to poke your brain."

He tapped the side of Mackerel's head, prompting him to... Growl?

He snorted. "Yep, a dumb animal. What're ya gonna do, bite me?? Like _this_? One push and you're immobilized!" He shoved him into the rough wall, scraping up the brand.

Fez ground his teeth, catching some noise in his throat and taking a knee.

"Don't try your luck, buddy." Bill clapped him on the back like some kind of friend. "Trust me, I branded you and I'll do worse."

Red shoved him in the side, forcing him to step away and stop touching him.

"Finally get wise, Big Fish? Tired of getting fucked up? Whatcha gonna do about it? It'd be _great_ to see."

He cackled, his own voice layering over Sixer's. A sure sign they were separating and Sixer was waking up.

Everything darkened at the edges and he grinned, stumbling forward and blacking out.


	14. And Slightly Less Unfortunate Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford is now forced to explain in full what is going on.

Stan shoved Ford down.

He'd just passed out and collapsed on him after... _Whatever_ the fuck that was all about.

Stan took a knee, kneeling on the ground and heaving. The pain in his side burned so bad that his throat closed and he couldn't breathe for several seconds at a time.

He sat there while his shoulder throbbed until it leveled out and he could think reliably again. 

The first thing he did was stand up and stumble away from Ford, who was pushing himself up and groaning, mumbling something to himself.

He stood as far away as he could get, while Stanford got to his feet and looked at him, confusion covering his face.

Then panic.

"Did I fall asleep?! How long was I out?!"

He got closer, making Stan's lip twitch. Like some stupid animal, as Ford would put it.

"I don't know! You're the jackass that woke me up!"

He clenched his fists, his grimy nails digging imprints into his palms, and crossed his arms. He felt exposed without his shirt and jacket, but the fabric rubbing against his side every time he moved would be agony.

Trust me, he'd tried wearing them.

"Stanley, what did I do last night?" 

Suddenly Ford was in his face, gripping his wrist with urgency. He'd used to that a lot, whenever something important was happening.

Stan gripped his forearm, tearing his hand off his wrist and shoving him back with a sneer (more like a snarl). He'd have felt better biting him.

" _Don't you fucking touch me._ " He hissed through his clenched teeth.

Ford had to gall to look shocked at his reaction, like he couldn't remember what had happened less than ten minutes ago.

"Stanley. I need you to tell me what happened." Ford talked slower. To Stan, it sounded like he thought he couldn't understand.

"I- You- You _stepped on me_ , you fucking-" Stan stammered, clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms again. "Called me a _dumb fucking animal-_ " 

It dissolved into furiously murmuring to himself about what he'd done, while Ford choked down what he'd said and considered what he could do about it.

"Stan. Stanley." He snapped his fingers, bringing Stan back to attention. "There's something I have to tell you. It will... It will help explain last night."

Stan bit the inside the cheek, staring Ford down and waiting for his explanation.

It seemed to die on his tongue now that he had to actually tell Stan what was going on.

"Well..." He started uncertain. "You remember what I said, about an anomaly that can take over your mind?" He paused for a nod from Stan. "He's a demon named Bill Cipher. All he wants is to cause chaos and destruction."

Stan gave him a disbelieving look. Something about "demon" made it sound like a bit of a hokey lie.

Ford went on, detailing how he'd discovered the demon, summoning it, and their first meeting.

Stan interrupted him pretty quick.

"So you looked at a cave paintings about a demon with a buncha warnings not to summon it, then you summoned it anyway? Why would you even summon somethin' called a demon anyway?"

Ford chewed on the tip of his tongue. He had a hard enough time facing his mistakes on his own, someone else pointing them out to him made insides turn sour.

"It... Was all in the pursuit of knowledge, Stanley."

Stan stared at him, wrinkling his nose in judgement and a little disbelief.

"How the hell are you not dead yet??"

"Luck, mostly."

Ford kept talking, telling him, vaguely, about his friendship with the demon and how it subsequently ruined his life.

True or not, Stan found himself feeling a little bad for him.

He'd had his fair share of people he'd trusted ending up trying to kill him. Albeit, trusted them a lot less than what Ford had trusted this Cipher guy.

Ford trailed off at some point, cracking his knuckles and clasping his hands behind his back and staring a bit behind Stan instead of making eye contact.

He was clearly waiting for Stan to say _"Oh, okay, that makes sense, I'm not mad about being stepped on and trust you completely."_

Stan chewed on the inside of his cheek, scratching at his palms.

He'd been lied to _a lot_ and some lies had been way more out there than a dream demon with mind control. 

Maybe Stanford had become better at lying in the last decade. Maybe he'd lost his mind.

He really didn't want to get hurt again, physically, emotionally, or otherwise.

He stared at Stanford's face.

Either every one of his tells had changed, or he was telling the complete, however strange, truth.

So Stan had to take a risk.

Maybe he was believing what he wanted to believe, that Stanford wouldn't do that to him.

"Fine, I guess. So what the hell are ya gonna do about it?"


	15. Solutions and More Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With ever more complicated solutions

Ford stood there, silently. What _did_ he intend to do? 

His plan had been to hide away the journals and finally dismantle the portal and then what? None of that would sever his ties to Bill. The only thing that could would be dying, or installing a metal plate in his brain.

He couldn't install a metal plate into his own head, and he certainly didn't trust somebody else to do it.

So what was he going to do? Just let Bill kill him? 

He stood there, wracking his brain for a solution. There had to be something, there _had_ to be **_something_** in the world that could help him.

Something he could do, something he could _make_ to protect himself.

It baffled him that he hadn't thought this far already. That he didn't already have a viable solution beyond dying.

Or maybe he had. He'd never been content to die. He had to at least have _thought_ of something.

"Oh- Oh of course-" 

It had hit him. Before he finished the thought entirely, he was rushing up to the main floor, where he'd sealed off a room entirely.

After some hesitation, Stan followed him. Curiosity killed the cat, not the dog, after all.

Ages and ages ago, before he'd had any knowledge of Bill, he'd gotten paranoid of creatures being able to invade his brain without his permission, and set to work on a device that would prevent it entirely.

When he'd met Bill, however, and given him access willingly, he abandoned the project just as it was nearing completion.

It should be able to completely block Bill, once and for all.

"This," He started, shoving the clutter out of the way of the door and opening up the room. "This- This, this, this-" He struggled to remember what he had called the project at first. "This _thing_ ," He settled, gesturing towards to whole wall of monitors, flicking a switch that brought it all to life.

" _This_ will be exactly what I need. I just need to finish it." He stopped paying attention to Stan entirely, rustling around the room, knocking whatever was left of the Bill memorabilia on any surface onto the floor, in search of everything he'd written down about the project.

In his frenzy, he hadn't noticed that the smell of rot had gotten worse when he opened the door. His sense of smell may have just shut off at this point.

Stan's, however, was still unfortunately great.

Ignoring everything Ford was muttering to himself, though careful to keep a distance, Stan picked his way over to a corner of the room, while the stench got progressively worse.

There, under a layer of papers, stood a statue of a triangle with one eye, propped against the wall, about the height of Stan's shin.

Coiled around it was a dead snake that definitely didn't belong in a nowhere town in Oregon.

It smelled like ten dead bodies stacked on each other in a hot truck. Not that he knew what that smelled like.

He picked up the statue, not willing to touch the snake, and took it outside, going unnoticed by Stanford.

It was heavy, and certainly _looked_ golden, but he found it hard to believe his brother had a solid gold statue just laying around. Even gold plated was out there. Had to be fake.

He stood in the snow on the porch, holding it as far away from his body as he could, and flung it away with all his might. 

It didn't get as far away as he would like to be, but he didn't really expect to toss it to another continent anyway.

He could deal with it later.

For now, he felt exhausted.

The simple task had drained his battered body completely.

He wasn't sure he could move.

For a moment, he stood there, swaying back and forth with the wind. It was gentle for now. It was a beautiful winter's day.

He had the time to appreciate this before collapsing in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> straight up this wasn't gonna be updated but thanks to darylstorey (who I'd link if I wasn't lazy and doing this at 3 am) and the fact I read a book what gave me fun new ideas for the execution. frankly I'm excited, which means you should worry


	16. Butterflies Have A Rather Short Lifespan, You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not doing too hot.

Stan woke up and immediately felt pain.

Pain in his skull, in his finger tips, in his face, especially in his side.

What had dulled down just the tiniest bit had flared up again, into burning, heart stopping pain.

For a minute, it paralyzed him. Laying on the wooden floor with his eyes clenched shut praying that he could pass out again.

When had he gotten inside?

He cracked his eyes open. He was on his side in the study Ford had cleared to piles of books and clutter away from, staring at the bottom of a bookshelf.

The only light was coming from the wall of monitors, bathing everything in this neon green.

He got his arms under him and sat up, so he was sitting upright on the floor. 

It made his head pound and his entire body ache, his side was absolutely screaming, but he'd dealt with worse. He just had to keep telling himself that and he'd be fine.

He pressed his eyes shut again, going absolutely still, while Ford started talking. He only cracked one eye open to look at him half way through his sentence.

"Oh god, you're awake, good."

Ford didn't look directly at him, preoccupied with something in his lap, glancing at him every few seconds instead.

"Yeah. Great."

Words seemed caught up in his brain, barely grinding out the weakest response. He could barely come up with anything else, just a couple of a questions, much less get it out.

The pain all seemed to gather at the front of his skull, like a jackhammer pounding away at his head.

He could've sworn he was starting to see spots.

Maybe he should have stayed on the floor.

"What made you collapse like that?" Ford asked, the most distracted and impersonal concern that Stan had ever heard creeping into his voice. He still wasn't looking directly at him.

Stan grimaced, his lip curling up an expression of... Something. Contempt? Hatred? Disgust?

He couldn't quite nail down which of those he was feeling. Maybe all of them, to some degree.

"Gee. Maybe getting stepped on had something to do with it." He muttered, the pain in his skull intensifying and slowing him down, like wading through mud. His vision started to blur.

Even so, he could make out Ford stopping whatever he was working on for a second, to turn and look at him fully.

"I... You know I wasn't..." He faltered, trying to come up with an excuse without saying _I was possessed_ outright, "You know I wasn't in my own headspace."

Stan almost didn't reply. It was getting harder to see, and to think.

He was starting to worry that there was something seriously wrong with him.

"Yeah. Sure." His voice came out groggy, unaware, and thick with mistrust.

He wanted to believe his brother, very badly in fact. But it was hard. And getting harder, when the world was getting blurrier and blurrier and a little darker again.

Ford stared at him for a moment, while Stan stared at a fixed point on the floor, before getting back to work.

It was only a minute before Stan slumped forward, unconscious once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year this was supposed to end wildly different but genuinely it took too long to get even this so wnsksjxk oops! all pain


	17. Deliberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's probably fine, right? People get branded and pass out all the time. Yeah. For sure.

For a while, Stanford was completely engrossed in his work.

It _was_ rather important to make sure he didn't get electrocuted immediately upon trying to shield his mind from Bill, after all.

And the silence was nice. It let him concentrate. He could deal with Stan in a moment.

Though, the silence did unnerve him after a while.

It was never like Stan to leave him alone for very long.

Though, he was injured, and hadn't exactly been talkative while he was stuck there. And could he really be expected to be the exact same since last time he saw him?

Even so, it felt off.

Even so, he didn't look up from his work.

It needed doing, and he could tolerate some quiet until it was done.

Until he heard the dull _thump_ of something falling over.

Or someone.

He looked up to find Stan unconscious again, on his side in what looked like an uncomfortable and unintentional pose.

For a second he just stared at him, not quite sure what to do. While he had been collapsed in the snow not an hour ago, he may also have just made the choice to get some sleep.

Which, in that case, probably shouldn't be woken up at the moment.

Stanford didn't have time to mother him right then anyhow. There was work to be done and Stan would live for a few more hours.

He got back to work, glancing at his unconscious brother every few seconds.

The brand was exposed, the skin around it red and the brand itself still seeming to smoke. He blinked hard and got back to work. 

There was no way it was still smoking, and it'd probably be fine by next morning.

Like it never even happened.

Stan would be fine and hopefully by then Stanford will have finished his work and they could get on with their lives.

The project was already mostly complete, just needing a few finishing touches and a bit of maintenance after being left alone for a few years.

If he worked fast enough, it'd be done by next morning.

He knew he could do it, and he knew that he _should_ , but every look at Stan made him feel more uneasy. The brand was inflamed for longer than he felt have been, it hadn't been cleaned or looked at either, and Stan _had_ fainted outside very recently.

He might just be sleeping. Stanford told himself that over and over, trying to continue his work. He might just be sleeping. They both needed the rest, and Stan would be smart to get it while he could.

He might just be sleeping.

But he also might not be.

Stanford stood up, setting the helmet aside.

It seemed unlikely that he'd unintentionally end up killing his brother by branding him, but it wasn't a chance he really wanted to take.

Wracking his brain for any useful information on burns, he set to work cleaning the brand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> straight up just filler bc it felt wrong to end a chapter with "he passes out" the start one with "he wakes up" only to end it with "he passes out again" and then start one with "he wakes up"


End file.
